by EJ Knapp
A grip considerably stronger than the secretary’s clamped itself on my upper arm, spun me around and dragged me out the room. I shook it off and stepped away.
“Sir ...”
“I’m going,” I said. I turned and had to look down to see their faces. Two flat black hats, two adolescent attempts at a moustache, the pair reminded me of the old Bud Fisher cartoon. Mutt and Mutt, I thought, they send up Mutt and Mutt.
“Wrong room is all; no problem.”
On shaky legs, I walked down the hall, down the stairs, the two Mutts following close behind.
“What’d you guys do with Jeff?” I asked over my shoulder. They gave me a blank stare and I shook my head in dismay over the total lack of fundamental education of the youth of today.
I stepped out the front door, a satisfied smile on my face. It was all beginning to come together. I just had to make sure I wasn’t blown apart before I could see the final picture.
The Mangler Revealed ‒ Maybe
Back outside again, the beautiful spring morning had turned ugly with thunder clouds moving in from the north. The crowd was dispersing faster than it had gathered, people packing up their lunches, folding their signs and hurrying off to whatever shelter they could find. Two teenagers were scurrying about, plastic garbage bags in tow, picking up trash.
As I made my way back to the newspaper office, I pulled out my cell phone and hit the speed-dial. It rang several times and then kicked over to voicemail. Felice wasn’t in which meant HL was gone as well. I folded up the phone, dropped it in my pocket and headed for the garage and my car.
Distant thunder greeted me as I pulled into my driveway. Jaz was midway down the walk way, pushing her bike, the wind whipping the tails of the long trench coat she wore.
“Heading back to work?” I said, stepping from the car.
“Heading to work, period,” she said. “I didn’t bother going in this morning. Wasn’t going to go in at all but what you said about the website and the viewing room bothered me so I thought I would check it out.”
“You’ll get wet,” I said, looking up at the threatening clouds.
“It’s a short ride. The rain won’t be here for another hour. If it gets bad enough, I can always take a cab home.”
“Well, be careful.”
“I always am, Teller.”
She mounted the bike, pulling up the hood of the coat as she pedaled away. All at once, Skeeter’s voice was whispering in my head: ‘After that is when the vampire came, like something out of one of those Wes Craven movies, all misty and formless, shimmering in the dark, a vampire on a bicycle.’
Dementors, vampires in general, Count Dracula in particular, what did they all have in common? Capes. As I watched Jaz disappear around a corner, I considered how much a trench coat with the hood pulled up could look like someone wearing a cape, especially in the dark, tweaked out on meth or riding the Night Train.
Could my suspicions about Jaz be right after all? Was she indeed the Mangler? It made a twisted kind of sense, considering the way the DPE was treating her, and it fit with some of the odd pieces of information I’d gathered so far; the print shop owner thought that his mysterious customer could have been a woman, the guard at the courthouse garage describing the pizza deliverer as being tall and willowy. Jaz fit the bill on all counts.
And what about the other things? The scent in Philo’s back room, the empty spot in his display case next to the voice synthesizer. Had that spot once been occupied by a similar gadget? Were Jaz and Philo in cahoots?
But the most damning piece of evidence was the fact that she had known it was Harrison’s body in the parking lot. I pulled out my cell phone, oblivious to the rising wind, the rain that splattered all around me. I needed to be sure.
“This is Teller,” I said, when the line on the other end was answered. “With the Call-Register. I need to talk to Marion Chambers right away. It’s urgent.”
A moment later, he answered.
“This better be good, Teller.”
“I just need to check something,” I said without preamble. “You said the morning Harrison’s body was found, his identity didn’t go out over the radio. Are you sure of that? No leaks, no curbside whispers amongst the troops?”
“Not a chance,” he replied. “My men don’t do curbside whispers. I told you before, you and Felice were the only ones outside the department who knew. Why?”
“No reason. Just checking”
“Teller!”
I broke the connection before he had a chance to grill me further.
That clinched it. She had lied to me. The only way she could have known the identity of the body in the parking lot would be if she had been the one to stumble across it. Either she’d been out for a midnight stroll or Jaz was the Meter Mangler.
Nearly soaked now, I hurried into the house, certain of what my activities would be over the next few evenings. Though I was certain now, the journalist in me wanted to confirm it with my own eyes. The courthouse meters would go into operation soon, by Monday at the latest. If Jaz was the Mangler and if she was going take them out yet again, she would have to do it soon. I planned to be there when it happened.
As it turned out, I never got the chance.
An Empty Newsroom Is A Sad Place
I spent the rest of the afternoon going through the copies of my notes I keep at the house and the information Lynn had obtained for me. A dozen phone calls to the research department had my fax machine rattling like an out of tune Tin Lizzie. Pulling a calendar from the wall, I plotted out all the days the Mangler had struck, trying to remember if I had seen Jaz during any of those times.
By the time I made it back to the newspaper, the mad rush to deadline was over and the worker bees had long ago left the building. The newsroom was deserted as I made my way to my office. Movement at the far end of the room made me halt. Someone was standing by the window. It took me a moment to recognize who it was.
“Sir,” I said. “Is everything all right?”
Startled, HL turned from the window.
“Teller. Yes, yes, everything is fine, I suppose. As fine as it can be.”
He began walking in my direction, looking about the room as if seeing it for the first time.
“An empty newsroom is a sad place,” he said.
“I’ve thought the same thing myself, sir,” I said.
He stopped beside a battered desk, ran his hand over the top of a monitor.
“Back when my father ran this business, this room was never quiet. Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. The two editions we put out, when folded for delivery, were as fat as a Yule log, even on Monday. Now ...”
He swept his hand out as if sweeping away the past.
“How is the investigation going, my boy?” he asked.
“I’m making some progress,” I said, trying to decide what I should tell him and what I should hold back. “Nothing definite yet, just a lot of loose ends which need gathering and tying.”
“Always the way with a story like this. You’ll tie them in the end. I have confidence in you. I always have.”
As he began walking across the newsroom, I fell in step beside him.
“About those tickets, sir” I said. “I’ve been thinking that maybe we should turn them over to the cops and run with the story. It’s getting dicey out there, what with what’s happening with the courthouse meters.”
“All the more reason not to run the story now, my boy. It’s a powder keg out there. That story could be the match, though I do agree we may need to bring the police in on it, soon. Anything further on your mysterious friend?”
“Not much,” I said, trying to decide what to tell him about what I’d seen in Cooper’s office. “The cops found the car he was driving the last time I saw him. Which may not have been the last time I saw him.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I think I may have seen him in Jefferson Cooper’s office,” I said.
“Cooper’s of
fice? You made your impromptu visit then?”
“I did.”
“And you saw this man in his office?”
“Slipping out the office, actually; which is why I’m not a hundred percent certain it was him. When I barged in on Cooper, another man was stepping out another door across the room. It was only a brief glance but I’m fairly sure it was him. Whoever it was had a bandage over the side of his face, which would be consistent with what the cats did to my assailant.”
We walked in silence for a moment; HL mulling over the information; me wondering why I hadn’t yet told Marion about my encounter.
“Can you describe this man?” he said, stopping near the end of the newsroom.
“Six three, two forty, maybe fifty, but not fat, a body builder’s body or someone used to physical labor, broad shoulders, muscular. I’d say he was in his forties, late forties. A thin moustache and thinning, dull copper-colored hair.”
“I’ll ask around, see if any of my contacts in the administration know of such a man.”
“About those tickets, sir.”
“You’re worried about them being in my possession.”
“After what happened the other night, that would be a yeah.”
“Have no fear, my boy, they are well protected.”
A sudden movement off to our left made both of us jump. Rafe stepped timorously, shaking, from the shadows.
“Rafe, what are you doing here so late?”
“I ... I ... s-sorry s-sir, I ...” He turned then and ran off toward the stairs.
“That was odd,” HL said.
“He’s an odd kid,” I said.
“But a good one and a good worker ... if a little strange at times. I promised his father before he died that I would ensure his son a job. Well, I must be getting back to work, as I’m sure you must as well.”
“Yes, sir. I do have some things I need to sort out.”
“Very well, then. Perhaps we should meet tomorrow, go over what you have; decide what the next steps should be.”
“I agree. I’ll type up my notes tonight, check in with you tomorrow morning.”
“Fine, I’ll see you then.”
I watched him walk away into the gloom of the foyer, heard the ding of the elevator. A shiver ran up my back, reminding me of what my father always used to say: A goose walked over your grave.
The thought unsettled me for reasons I couldn’t explain.
No More The Always Happy Rafe
Once settled in my office, I toyed with my pencil, spinning it on the desk, doodling on the corners of the sheet of paper where I was trying to collect my thoughts. It wasn’t working. They fluttered about like fireflies at mating time with no coherent pattern to their flight.
I was about ready to give it up, resigning myself to the idea of getting up extra early and going at them again in the morning when the phone on my desk rang. It startled me. No one ever called me on that phone. I picked it up midway through the second ring.
“Hel ...”
“Teller!” It was a gasp and then the clatter of a handset being dropped to the floor. I bolted from the chair and ran from my office, knocking over a trash can and colliding with a desk as I ran across the newsroom toward the elevators. It was Felice’s terrified voice on the phone.
I skidded halfway across the foyer and fell on my ass. From my supine position, I glanced at the floor indicator over the elevator doors. It was moving downward, nearly to the basement garage. It would take forever for it to get back up here to the third floor. I clambered up and ran for the stairs.
The building was old and the lighting in the stairwell was dim. As I rounded the landing between the fourth and fifth floor, I came to a halt. There, on the floor was Rafe’s body, his head twisted at an angle that suggested he wouldn’t be moving anytime soon. Not under his own power, anyway.
I stepped over him and flew up the last set of stairs. Bursting through the stairwell door, I slid on the marble floor, using the far wall as a bouncing-off point to steady myself and turn toward HL’s office. Chaos greeted me there. Office supplies were scattered everywhere. Felice was on the floor, leaning against the credenza, her hair in disarray, her face bloodied. I knelt down beside her.
“The police are on their way,” she whispered. “I called them.”
“Albert?”
“No need. He knows.”
I didn’t bother to ask how.
“What happened here?” I said, even though I had a sick feeling that I already knew the answer.
“Check on HL,” she said. “Go, now. I’ll be all right.”
I left her side and stepped into HL’s office. It looked like a tornado had swept through it.
“HL,” I called out, dispensing with protocol. I heard a groan and hurried to the other side of the desk. He was wedged up inside the foot well. His clothes were torn, his face and hair red with blood. I reached in and eased him out, on his back, resting his head in my lap.
A moment later, I heard loud voices in the other room and a moment after that I was surrounded by paramedics. They took over and once I was out from under HL, I moved back into Felice’s office.
Cops began swarming all over, trailing in and out like ants at a picnic. Albert had arrived and was helping Felice to her feet and lowering her into a chair. A paramedic began ministering to her wounds. I started to move over to them when two paramedics, the same two who had been at my house the other night, came out HL’s office, pushing a chrome gurney. HL lay on it, covered in a white sheet toe to neck. An oxygen mask covered his face.
It all began to click into place then. Rafe, dead, sprawled out on the landing. I had no doubt the tickets were gone. Rafe had been the mole. I was sure of it now. They must have had something on him; probably that damn car of his. He overheard us earlier; heard me describe my friend; heard HL say he would check around.
Heard me talk about the tickets.
He must have run out, and called whoever it was, and this was the result. Then, once he’d served their purpose – and because he could identify them – they disposed of him like yesterday’s garbage. Poor Rafe. I should have seen it that day in my office, the way he stared at the envelope in my hand, he must have suspected what it contained, that weird quip about his car being towed. He was scared, jumpy, the always-happy Rafe. He’d as much as told me then if I’d just listened, understood what he was saying. But I didn’t. And I had all but given him a map to where I was taking those tickets.
I stepped back as the gurney passed, looked over to where Felice and Albert sat. An EMS tech brought a wheelchair over and he and Albert helped Felice into it. I could tell she was protesting, but it was a feeble gesture. As they wheeled her out, following the gurney, the sounds in the room began to fade as though they too were moving away from me, leaving the room as those few I cared for in this world were leaving it. I turned and wandered back into HL’s office. The crime scene techs were doing their thing. I hadn’t even seen them arrive.
Both chairs in front of the desk were overturned. Two of his priceless Queen Anne bookcases were toppled to the floor, glass doors smashed, books scattered. The desk itself, that mammoth hunk of near solid oak, was turned part way around. The old man must have put up a hell of a fight.
I walked over to the windows, turned and watched them work, trying hard to ride the wave of guilt I felt. I should never have given the old man those tickets. Better I was the one on the gurney, not him.
Deep in my thoughts, I didn’t notice when the CSI crew left.
I’m Not Your Fucking Messenger Boy
The room was dark, the moonlight through the windows and the light from Felice’s office casting eerie shadows across the floor. I tried to remember who had turned the lights off, or if they had been off when I first arrived. Surely the CSI guys would have turned them on.
Pushing myself from my solitary position against the wall, I began to wander about the room, picking up books. HL’s tastes crossed all ages and all genre boundaries. The clas
sics like Kurt Vonnegut, James Joyce, F. Scott Fitzgerald and William Shakespeare mingled amidst the shards of glass, with the modern works of authors like Jon Clinch, A. S. King, Sara Gruen and Cat Connor. I picked them up, one by one, dusted them off, and began stacking them up in neat piles along the wall.
I must have grown tired, or bored, or maybe I had just run out of books to stack, for I found myself seated on the floor, thumbing through a copy of Melanie Benjamin’s Alice I Have Been, when I heard a noise in Felice’s office. Turning to investigate, I saw a figure back-lit in the doorway.
The book fell from my hands. My first panicked thought was that my friend had returned, but I quickly dismissed it. What would be the point? He had what he wanted. Why come back and risk capture?
“This is what you get when you hold things back, Teller.”
Marion. I rose to my feet, my heart thumping in my chest, guilt and anger-fueled adrenalin flowing into my system with every beat.
“You think I wanted this?” I said, louder than I’d intended but not loud enough to appease my anger. “You think I’m not beating myself up sufficiently, so you have to come in here with your self-righteous bullshit words of wisdom?”
He stepped into the room. I moved two steps closer to him. We stood, facing each other, fists balled. Once brothers-in-arms, we’d morphed into bitter antagonists, finding ourselves united in an uneasy détente over the death of a mutual friend. And now, here we were, staring each other down, ready to tear each other apart.
I blinked first.
“Fuck this,” I said, letting go of the anger in the uncurling of my hands. I turned my back on him and walked to the windows.
“You know about the tickets,” I said, staring down at the deserted street below.
“I know about them,” he said. “Now.”
“Felice.”
He nodded; a constrained nod that looked more like a spasmodic jerk than an affirmation.
“I had no idea what they meant,” I said. “Leastwise not until my friend tried to hand me a coin for a boat ride across the river Styx.”
